


Digestion Slows Me Down

by Laural_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Self-Destructive Ideation, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laural_Rose/pseuds/Laural_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The obligatory 'Sherlock has an Eating Disorder' Story™. Or, a brief bit of introspection from Sherlock's point of view about his relationship with food and how eating (or not) affects The Work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digestion Slows Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock, as portrayed in this story, is extremely dismissive of eating disorders and those who suffer from them; his view is not the view of the author. This story is in no way meant to represent a healthy view of food or a person's relationship with his or her body, nor is it meant to belittle anyone who struggles with body-image issues, or with his or her relationship with food. 
> 
> Not beta-ed or Brit Picked.

“None for me.” (I’m fine.) “Working.”

There is nothing wrong with me – there is everything wrong with me. The human mind isn’t supposed to work the way mine does: not even Mycroft’s does, and certainly not those of ordinary people. Regardless, mine does work, it does The Work, and that is all that matters.

I say digestion slows me down. It is a lie that is also true. When I don’t eat, my mind slows enough for me to catch it.

My mind never stops. It races, devours, and ferments. It’s never quiet, never still.

When hunger pains distract my transport, I can focus; I can think. There is a clarity that comes when my transport is preparing to consume itself. I can finally see what should have been obvious.

I’d never actually starve myself; I require sensory input to acquire data, or my mind will have nothing to analyze. I require working limbs and adequate muscle mass, or I’ll be unable to outmaneuver criminals. I may wish to be pure thought, but until technology makes it possible for a mind to interact with the world without the intermediary of a body, I’m stuck in this miserable cage of physicality as long as I wish to continue My Work. It would be imprudent to damage myself carelessly: I am meticulous in tracking my calorie intake and expenditure, though I’m careful to never admit to it. Everyone misunderstands.

I am not a foolish teenage girl trying to fit an arbitrary ideal of beauty. I don’t care how I look; that is not the shape of my vanity. While I’ve found my appearance can be convenient for manipulation, I’m confident I could achieve the same ends using other means, if necessary. It is not an eating disorder, or an image problem, or any other ridiculous pop-psychological term the world would glibly apply if I tried to explain. I am not damaged, I am not doing damage, I know exactly what I’m doing to myself, and it is for my own good. It facilitates The Work. I am healthy, I am fit, I am not insane; I am the pinnacle of reason and stability. I am driven by logic in an over-emotional world. I am completely in control.

And, when my vision starts to tunnel, when the world starts to go grey, it’s always (only) when a case has gone badly. When I should have seen, should have known… when it wasn’t enough, and someone else paid for it.

Not much carp, this caring lark. But it is; it’s a wound to my professional pride when I fail to save them. When I fail to see, in time, what was right in front of me. When I didn’t push hard enough. So, if I push a little harder, it’s because I was too lenient with myself in the first place. If I push further than I normally would, it balances out.

If I push far enough, maybe my mind will finally clear for good, and work at a pace that I can keep up with, and that can keep up with the data, so I’ll have the answers when I need them, and I won’t have to push anymore.

And if it hurts, it’s just transport. (If it hurts, at least I can feel something.)

(If it hurts, maybe there is something wrong with me, but if there’s something wrong with me, then I can’t be fixed, because I’m not like anyone else, so who would know even where to start? So, there’s nothing wrong with me, because I do the Work, I’m not broken. There’s nothing wrong with me because even if there was, there’s nothing to be done.)

I have another day, maybe two, before I need to eat again. ‘None for me, yet.’ I’m just (not) fine.


End file.
